


Age of Consent

by akhlys



Series: Landlines [1]
Category: Taken (TV 2002)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Coming of Age, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 16:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6617707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akhlys/pseuds/akhlys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Mary's 18th birthday. She hopes he remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Age of Consent

It’s April 27th.

1988.

And Mary was born in 1970, you see, so it’s a rather significant birthday.

Well, it wouldn’t be _quite_ so significant if it weren’t for another, fairly significant, factor: she’s been waiting. Ages. Five years, at least. And adolescents do think five years is an eternity, don’t they? It’s not atypical of her to think that, is it?

She steels herself, looks back at the front of the class, her legs crossed under the plaid skirt of her school uniform. Her teacher is droning on about something vaguely related to chemistry, and she tries her best to pay attention – but her mind is everywhere but on molar mass.

Besides, he…well. He taught her this. Years ago. And honestly, _she_ could probably do a better job of teaching the class than the bumbling idiot at the front. Really what she’s doing, though, is watching the clock – because in about an hour, the bell will ring, and she’ll be rushing home to sit and wait by the phone.

Okay, look – it’s not that she doesn’t have friends. She does. Or at least, she has people whose presence she can tolerate for longer than half an hour. These people asked her to go out tonight, suggested a park with booze stolen from their parents, suggested a host of completely mindless pursuits that Mary Crawford seriously does not have time for. “Come on, Mary, it’ll be fun!”

Fun. _Fun_ , huh? They have no idea. Drinking themselves to oblivion isn’t _fun_. It’s pathetic, and adolescent, and Mary Crawford is 18 today, and that’s a milestone, and _fun_ should be had in…notably more adult ways.

Her face heats and, flushed, she lowers her eyes to the graph paper in front of her. _Wait._

Last period takes for-goddamn-ever. But that bell finally rings. And she says goodbye to her friends (who make her promise she’ll come out with them this weekend, at least, and she accepts, if only to shut them up), and she quickly starts her walk home.

She glares at the streets as she passes them – she hates Ellsworth. Hates the east coast, generally. It’s rainy and cold and miserable and god, it has nothing to do with the weather. But she misses Las Vegas. Thinks of California constantly. It would be so much easier if things hadn’t changed, or if she was out on the west coast. Everything would be different.

 _But you’re 18,_ she says to herself, a flare of excitement rising in her. _Everything_ is _different now._

Home.

To wait by the phone.

Her father is nowhere to be seen, of course. Her mother kisses her cheek and asks what she’d like for dinner. She couldn’t care less; she’s not remotely hungry. She checks her watch – 12:30 in Pasadena. “Mom,” she starts to say.

Julie looks at her expectantly. “Yes, honey?”

“Um…never mind. No – did anyone call for me?”

Julie’s eyes glaze over as she searches her memory – though, if Mary’s perfectly honest, Julie’s eyes are generally glazed over. Mostly because of her asshole of a husband. Who barely works but isn’t even _here_ for his daughter’s birthday – but Julie snaps her fingers. “Oh! Yes!”

Mary’s heart stops. _Was it him, was it him, was it him –_

“Your grandmother! Would you like to call her back? I know she’d love to talk to you.”

Oh.

“Um, no, I have homework. I’ll call her tomorrow.” _Can’t tie up the phone line. Not today._

But.

Hours.

Pass.

And the time in Pasadena is clicking closer to mid-afternoon.

He’s gotta know she’s home from school, at this point. Even after school activities are usually done by 6.

The thought makes Mary cringe with embarrassment. _After school activities, god. You’re an adult now, alright – act like one_.

But she’s waiting. And the phone isn’t ringing.

Around 7, her mother keeping dinner warm, the door opens and Eric enters. Mary doesn’t bother to get up from her prime seat in the living room, curled at the corner of the couch doing her reading for Psychology. Eric walks in, still in his coat. “Mary, dinner’s ready.”

 _As if I didn’t already know_. Mary resists the urge to roll her eyes. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Happy birthday, by the way.” His face breaks into an awkward half-smile that looks completely fake. Mary clenches her fists. _Do not roll your eyes_.

“Thanks.”

“Oh, by the way – this came for you.” Eric offers her a slim package. “Birthday gift, I guess.”

Mary tentatively stands, walks to the door, accepts it. “Okay.”

“See you at the table. Five minutes.”

She nods, returning to the couch, vibrating with every fucking oscillation in the universe _because the label is in his fucking handwriting and she could die_ , she could die right here and watch the sky collapse out from under her. She checked the return address, just to be sure: _Dr. Chet Wakeman._ Pasadena. Rush delivery.

Her heart is shards.

For a moment, she sits. An outside observer would notice absolutely nothing unusual: Mary Crawford, after all, knows how to keep it inside. But inside – god, inside, she is seething. Every organ in her is on fire.

In this package is either the confirmation or denial of everything she’s ever really wanted.

In one universe, there will be a thick letter explaining every interaction they’ve had in the past ten years. Every hug that lasted a moment too long, gaze that went clear behind his glasses, soft smile verging on inappropriate, glint in his eyes when she talked about her biology class. Every time it felt like more than what, to an outside observer, it was.

In another universe, there will be a movie on VHS that an 18-year-old would probably like, right, because he doesn’t know what they like and doesn’t care.

She can’t open it.

It’s Schrodinger’s fucking cat: the second she does, everything changes. For better or worse.

And then her mother calls from the dining room: “Mary!”

 _Anon, good nurse_.

Just fucking do it, already.

In the haze of ripped paper and torn envelopes, Mary vaguely recognizes the feeling of disappointment sinking into her fingertips.

It’s a book. A novel, no less. Who cares.

And a card. With a brief scrawl in his unmistakable writing:

_Mary – Wishing you all the best on your 18 th. Though the best is ahead; or perhaps simultaneous. Seek your thrills. – Chet._

She could, in fact, die.

“Well.” She says, primly. She places the book on the table beside her, careful not to spare a glance at the phone. Picks up the wrapping paper, the envelope, the card. _This is adulthood, isn’t it_? This sickening dread, this horrible fear that everything she’d expected, wanted, would fail her. Let her down.

Great. Fine. So be it.

She throws everything in the kitchen garbage on her way to the dining room. Sits very straight at the impeccably set table, her parents looking at her expectantly.

“Well? What was it?” her dad asks, with vague curiosity.

“Nothing, really,” Mary answers, her heart in shards.

“Cheers,” Julie cuts in, wanting to avoid anything meaningful. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

They clink their glasses.

The phone does not ring.

Mary turns 18.


End file.
